Rachel Lindsay - Designing Man

by Rachel Lindsay

  She obeyed his quiet command to come in and found him seated at his desk, pale and heavy eyed.

  "Aren't you going to come and meet the press?" she asked. "Everyone wants to see you."

  "I can't face them. I'm sure my father can cope much better on his own."

  "As you wish. I didn't come down to force you upstairs: merely to see how you were."

  He relaxed visibly and she noticed a fine sheen of perspiration above his upper lip. What a beautifully shaped mouth he has, she thought involuntarily and with an effort drew her eyes away from it.

  "It's been a great strain for you, hasn't it?" she stated.

  "No more of a strain for me than my father—and I'm younger than he is. I should be able to take it more easily."

  "I don't think it's a question of age so much as temperament. You're more sensitive than he is and—"

  "Too damned sensitive!" he burst out and rested his head in his hands.

  Realizing that the success of the show had caused him to lose momentary control of himself, she went to the window and stared out into the garden.

  "I feel better now." His voice was directly behind her, his breath warm on her ear. "Forgive my behavior but it's… it's been quite a strain. The main theme of the show was mine and if it had been a failure, I'd have got the blame for it."

  "You should now be getting most of the success," she said, swinging around to look at him. "Every dress you designed received applause. Several of your father's were well received, too, but it was your designs that made the Collection outstanding."

  "Thank you for trying to boost my ego."

  "It's true. I'm not being flattering."

  "You never have been—to me." He gripped her arms and pulled her closer.

  It was only the second time he had touched her since they had met, and she was conscious of the strong pressure of his fingers; surprisingly strong from such slim hands.

  "I owe you a great deal," he said haltingly. "I'd never… I'd never have stuck up for my own designs if it hadn't been for you."

  "But I never said anything," she protested.

  "You didn't have to speak. It was the way you looked at me. What you felt was palpably obvious on your face. Anger, pity, contempt."

  "Never contempt," she said quickly and longed to add that she had felt many more emotions than those he had subscribed to her. But since they were emotions she had not yet begun to understand, she remained silent, hoping he would say something more that would help her to understand herself. What was there about this man that tugged at her? It couldn't be love. He was not her type physically nor was he mentally rugged enough.

  "Alix," he whispered and leaned forward.

  Their eyes met and they were so close she could see pale golden flecks in the sherry-brown depths. He lifted his hand and touched her raven-black hair, following the curving wave that lay close against her cheek.

  "Alix," he repeated. "Will you let me design a dress for you?"

  The words were so different from what she had hoped, that she was speechless.

  "My father's having a fancy-dress ball at Croxham," he went on, "and I know exactly what you should wear."

  All at once she understood his offer. Had he been a painter he would have offered her a portrait but because he was a couturier, he was offering her the one thing he could give that was truly a part of himself.

  Pleasure warmed her and she smiled. "I'd love you to design my costume. What color will it be?"

  "You'll have to wait till the day. Come over to the desk and I'll take your measurements."

  Alix stood perfectly still as Paul busied himself with a tape measure. She, who prided herself on her sophistication, was exasperated to feel the blood mounting in her cheeks at the light, firm touch of his hands upon her body. She glanced at him covertly but he was absorbed in his task, his brows faintly contracted.

  "I think that'll do," he said, and jotted down the final measurements.

  "I…I'd better be getting upstairs," she said breathlessly. "But I'll be looking forward to seeing what you dream up for me."

  He did not answer and she hurried from the room.

  The publicity that Duval's received satisfied even Alix, and for the next ten days she was kept busy with it.

  Naturally enough, Henri also expected coverage of his fancy-dress party, and she placed it in Peter's hands, preferring to concentrate her own activity upon the Collection.

  She was so occupied she had no time for any private life, and one evening Mark, calling to take her to a movie and finding her still at her desk, protested loudly about it.

  "I've never known you to get so swamped by a client. The Duvals haven't bought your body as well as soul, have they?"

  "You know very well that publicity comes in fits and starts," she explained, "and this is one of my busiest times."

  "You should charge them a fortune for what you're giving them."

  Wearily she threw down her pencil and stretched her arms above her head. There was a great deal of truth in what Mark said; she was putting more into her work for the Duvals than she did for any of her other clients.

  "I won't be working over the weekend," she promised. "Peter and I are going down to Henri's party."

  "Some relaxation that'll be for you! You'll be rushing around getting a lot of newsworthy stuff out of it, if I know you."

  "That's what I'm going for," she retorted, and then laughed as she realized that her words had condemned her. "Don't try to stop me working, Mark. You won't succeed."

  "Sometimes I don't think I'll ever succeed in anything with you. Why don't you stop completely, Alix, and let me take care of you?"

  With his eyes searching hers, she could not pretend to misunderstand what he was saying.

  "It's no good, Mark. I can't marry you. I've told you before I don't love you."

  "Because you didn't love me last month, doesn't mean you can't love me now."

  She attempted a smile but for some reason it wasn't successful and tears filled her eyes.

  "Alix, what's wrong? I didn't mean to upset you. It's—"

  "It isn't anything you said, Mark. I don't know why I'm crying." The tears fell faster and she took the handkerchief he offered. "I guess you're right about my overworking. I am tired."

  "Can't you get out of this party?"

  "No."

  "Well, how about my coming with you? I'm sure the Duvals wouldn't mind."

  "I'll be too busy to talk to you," she said quickly. "It'll be a waste of your time."

  It was only later that night as she lay in bed that she wondered why she had refused Mark's offer, for she could certainly have found time for him had she wanted to do so. Yet her refusal had been instinctive and she was afraid to probe below the surface of her mind to find out from where it stemmed, knowing that once she uncovered the truth she would have taken a step forward from which she would never be able to retreat.

  As she drove out of London with Peter the following Saturday afternoon she thought of the dress Paul had made for her and nervously hoped it would fit. He had kept his word and refused to let her see it, which meant she had not had a fitting for it. Still, with two couturiers in the house, a little alteration here and there should be possible!

  She glanced at Peter, her pleasurable thoughts dimmed by the sight of his gloomy face.

  "What's wrong with you?" she asked. "Still pining for Fleur?"

  "I'm learning to live with that."

  "What else then?"

  He was so long replying that she knew she would have to give him a shove.

  "Keeping it to yourself won't help. At least if you tell me what's eating you, I may be able to help you."

  "Sharks," he said jerkily.

  "What?"

  "Loan sharks," he explained, and went on to say that in an effort to quickly repay the money he had borrowed from Henri, he had started to gamble and had only ended up owing more.

  "I thought you were selling your apartment to raise the money needed?" sh
e cried in exasperation.

  "I couldn't get the price I wanted."

  "So you tried gambling? Oh Peter, what an idiot you are! Why didn't you come and tell me?"

  "Pride," he said. "But I'm telling you now."

  She knew he was asking for help and though she wanted to give it, she also wanted to make sure he did not see an easement of his finances as a reason for resuming his pursuit of Fleur.

  "If there's any problem in your helping me," he said abruptly, "then forget it."

  "The big problem is Fleur. She'll be at the manor this weekend and… and I want you to steer clear of her."

  "Rebuff her advances and make none of my own?"

  "Fleur won't make any advances to you—not with her mother there."

  "Then there's no problem," he replied flatly.

  "Only the one you're making for yourself. Fall in love with someone else.''

  "Just like that? Come off it, Alix. Can you fall in love to order?"

  She thought of Mark and knew the answer. "At least try to forget her," she said.

  "I am. But I'm not very successful."

  The rest of the journey was completed in silence though Alix still continued to think about Peter's problems. But as they neared the manor her thoughts turned to Dina, who had also been invited here for the weekend. The invitation had not come from Henri—who was now completely immersed with Sophie—and she wondered if it had stemmed from Paul and why Dina had accepted it. Did she hope to win back Henri's affections or was it merely a desire to embarrass him?

  Long shadows were slanting across the emerald lawns of Croxham Manor as they drew to a stop outside the massive oak door. The stonework of the old house glowed golden in the late sunlight and a thrush caroled his evening song as they stepped out onto the paved courtyard and walked up the steps.

  At their ring the door was opened by a maid who, motioning Peter to leave the cases where they were, asked if they wished to go to their rooms right away or would prefer to have a drink in the drawing room.

  "A drink for me," Peter grinned. "How about you, Alix?"

  "I could do with a drink," she agreed. "I'm feeling chilly."

  Together they went into the main living room, surprised to find it empty. But a log fire burned in the grate and a trolley beside it was laden with a wide assortment of drinks.

  "The Duvals certainly know how to treat their guests," Peter said, squinting appreciatively. "They've even provided some salt-rimmed glasses for anyone fancying a margarita!"

  "That's what I do call hospitality," she smiled. "And it happens to be one of my favorites." She accepted the generous measure he poured and sipped it. "I imagine everyone's upstairs changing."

  "That's where I'll go as soon as I've downed this. Wait till you see my costume. I'm rather proud of it."

  Alix walked over to the fire and warmed her hands. It was surprising how cold these old houses were. It was as if the sunlight never penetrated the thick stone walls. Outside, the sun was slowly sinking in the west and the dark branches of the trees cast a black tracery against the purple sky. As the light faded the room took on a different atmosphere and the fire came into its own, casting shadows over the walls and making the furniture loom larger and darker.

  She drained her drink and turned to the door, stopping as it slowly began to open. Noiselessly it moved across the carpet, disclosing a tall, male figure shrouded in black. The light behind illuminated him and one arm rose to push away the monkish cowl that framed his head and shoulders. As it fell back a skull gleamed white and Alix screamed.

  "Good evening, friends," the figure said in a hollow whisper. "Death bids you welcome to the feast!"

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  In the months to come, Alix was to remember Henri Duval's strange choice of costume. For it was Henri who advanced into the room and removed his mask. Had he worn it as a premonition, she was to wonder later, or had the choice been an idle one, born out of his desire to create a shock effect?

  If shock was his intention, then he had succeeded completely, for as he postured in front of her, Alix sank shaking onto the settee.

  "I never knew you had such a macabre sense of humor. You nearly gave me a heart attack!"

  "And I never dreamed you would be scared so easily. The indomitable Alix actually screamed!"

  "If you'd come one step nearer, I'd have fainted!"

  Highly pleased with himself, Henri rubbed his hands together.

  "Do you not think it a brilliant idea of mine to come as Death?"

  "Original," she said dryly, "but I'm not sure its humor will be appreciated."

  "At least it's out of the ordinary," he said blandly,

  "and that is what I wanted. I always think…" He paused as a voluptuous young woman came through the door.

  With an exclamation she could not suppress, Alix recognized Sophie. She had been dismayed at the knowledge that Dina was going to be here for the weekend but had never envisaged Henri's newest inamorata being here, too!

  Poor Dina, she thought, and then almost at once, Poor Madame Duval!

  As if guessing her thoughts, Sophie undulated over to her. She was dressed as a Castillian bride, with frilled skirts and her hair glowing silver through a lace mantilla.

  "What do you think of my costume?" she asked in her husky, insolent voice. "Henri designed it forme."

  "It's lovely."

  Sophie glanced over her shoulder, and as if the movement was a magnet, Henri came over and put his arm around her. The wide sweep of his black cloak hid their two figures and Alix was certain that behind its voluminous folds, they were pressed close together, body to body.

  She stood up. "I'd better go and change or I'll be late."

  "You must wait and have a drink with me first," said a clear, cool voice, and Alix swung around as Dina came into the room with Paul.

  The actress had not changed, either, and was wearing a plain black dress that emphasized the pallor of her elfin face.

  "Why aren't you in your costume?" Henri said with forced bonhomie. "You're missing all the fun."

  "So it would appear," Dina said dryly and fixed Sophie with an icy stare. "A seam's come unstitched in my dress and one of the maids is fixing it for me."

  "Henri made the one I'm wearing," Sophie said loudly.

  There was a tense silence and then Dina swung to her.

  "Enjoy the limelight while you can," she drawled. "It won't last long!"

  "Behave yourself, Dina," Henri warned. "You and Sophie are both my guests and I won't have any scenes in my house."

  Dina rounded on him, tears of anger glistening in her eyes. "Then you damn well shouldn't have asked her here."

  "I didn't ask you," Henri retorted, his normal charm forgotten as fury purpled his face.

  "My God!" Dina stared at him defiantly. "That's gratitude for you. If it hadn't been for me, you'd still be an old has-been!"

  "Dina!" Alix exploded, but had no chance to say more, for the girl swung on her heel and raced from the room.

  A short silence followed her departure, broken at last by Henri speaking to his son.

  "You shouldn't have asked her here."

  "And you shouldn't have asked Sophie!"

  Before Henri could reply three people came into the room: Fleur and a Mr. and Mrs. Allan-Jones, neighbors of the Brandons at Croxham Parva. They were dressed as a lady and gentleman of the Gainsborough period, while Fleur looked delightful as a mermaid, her long fair hair hanging straight down her back and intertwined with artificial seaweed.

  "I made it myself," she said proudly. "But mother has refused to dress up. She says it's the privilege of age to wear whatever you like!"

  "Very sensible," said a quiet voice as Amy Duval joined the group, her black lace dinner dress striking a note of incongruity amid the fantastic figures surrounding her. "I hope your mother is coming to dinner?"

  Fleur nodded. "She'll be along later. She wanted to watch some television serial and said she'll drive over when it's finished."
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  Alix stood a little apart from the group, pondering on the ugly scene she had just witnessed and hoping Amy Duval had not heard it. If only Dina had refused Paul's invitation—or if he had had the sense not to issue it! Unless Dina had insisted on coming? Somehow this seemed more feasible. The girl was like a child who refused to accept that she was no longer the center of attraction. Yet somehow Alix felt there was more to Dina's outburst than mere exhibitionism; she had looked almost desperate.

  "Why so worried?" a voice said softly, and Alix raised her eyes to see Paul beside her.

  "I was thinking about Dina," she said bluntly.

  "Don't. This is something she has to work out herself. I'll help her all I can but…" His voice trailed away and when he spoke again, there was a teasing note in it. "I'm hurt to see you haven't been up to your room yet."

  She looked at him, puzzled, then gave an exclamation. "The dress! I'd forgotten all about it. Oh Paul, I'm so sorry."

  "Never mind. I understand why." His smile was faint but warm. "Go now. I'm anxious to see what you look like in it."

  Heart beating fast, Alix slipped away to her bedroom. It was the one she had been given the last time she had stayed here, and she felt a sense of belonging as she entered the chintzy atmosphere. But it was the dress on the bed that commanded her attention: a billowing mass of color, shading from emerald to aquamarine, from vibrant red to palest pink, its skirt caught here and there by clusters of diamante that sparkled like stars.

  A note was pinned to the bodice and she picked it up and read it.

  "Every facet of a diamond reveals a new color, so here's a multicolored dress for a diamond-bright girl."

  A diamond-bright girl. So that was how Paul envisaged her. It was flattering yet she could find it in her heart to wish he had chosen to compare her with something else. Brilliant and beautiful though she knew a diamond to be, it was also the hardest jewel known to man.

  But her misgiving seemed churlish when she put on the dress and saw how beautiful she looked in it. Surely no one could have designed such an exquisite thing in a mocking or critical spirit. Slipping on the silver shoes she had brought with her, she felt an unusual expectancy take hold of her, and she buoyantly ran down the stairs again.